


where it started

by memitims



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Coda, Episode: s09e23 Do You Believe in Miracles?, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 08:19:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1772158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/memitims/pseuds/memitims
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He doesn’t forget the name though. Dean Winchester. Or the face. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knows this man is important." (deancas 9.23 coda)</p>
            </blockquote>





	where it started

"I just want to be an angel," Castiel tells Hannah.

So he becomes an angel, again. There are more blindingly white offices, new rulers of heaven (constantly changing), all molding him into the perfect model angel once again. He forgets what it’s like to be human, to hurt, to bleed. He forgets what sandwiches taste like. He forgets Sam Winchester, his gentle smiles and pure kindness, everything the younger Winchester taught him about being the best person you can be. He forgets what the inside of the Impala smells like (gun-oil, leather, and home). He forgets all the good aspects of humanity, like Nora and her thoughtfulness, Claire Novak’s innocence, Jo and Ellen Harvelle smiling into the lens of Bobby’s old camera. He forgets Bobby Singer too, of course. 

He forgets everything that made him Castiel. It takes longer, but eventually he forgets the way Dean Winchester looks at him, eyes unabashedly full of something like love, he forgets sitting on a park bench, fishing on a sun-streaked dock, and being warm and safe at the bunker. He forgets the hot tears that sprang to his eyes when he realized Metatron was telling the truth - Dean’s body had gone cold and the evidence (Dean’s blood smeared on an angel blade) was right in front of him. He forgets Dean’s gruff voice (the way it said ‘Cas’), how everything about him becomes much softer in the enchanting hours of early morning, and the feel of their arms around each other in the midst of a tight, life-affirming hug. 

He doesn’t forget the name though. Dean Winchester. Or the face. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knows this man is important. 

Castiel forgets for (decades, centuries? he doesn’t know) a very long time. He does not visit Earth. Castiel finally gets what he told Hannah he desired in Heaven’s rubble-strewn prison. He does not feel emotions, not anymore, he does not understand the butterfly flutter of a heart, the ache behind his ribs. It is simply unimportant to this newly crafted angel. He no longer feels too much, his soul (does he still have a soul? did he ever?) is filled with the absence of his compassion. 

It is a cold, September evening on Earth when Castiel finally leaves Heaven. However, he does not stop on this fascinating planet of soil and water. He is sent down to Hell, to retrieve a soul from the pit. Just another of Heaven’s many assignments. 

He travels to Hell. Castiel no longer remembers that long-ago trip to Alastair’s realm to save the Righteous Man, a trip that would change the course of his life altogether and change Castiel himself. It was one of the first things they scrubbed from his mind. 

Hell is an antithesis, hot and cold at the same time, but Castiel feels neither. His wings (heavy on his back) carve out the path towards the soul he is meant to save. 

He reaches the prison that cages this soul. She is a young lady, dark-skinned with jet-black hair and a shining soul (Castiel can see the outline of human bodies down here, but the souls are much more prominent. Most are dark, mangled, twisted, but this one is a supernova). She made a deal with a demon as a child, to save her life, and she does not belong here (If Castiel was himself, he would remember Dean Winchester telling him of another undeserving soul sentenced to burn, a firecracker of a women named Bela Talbot, but Castiel is not himself so he does not remember). 

Before he can grasp the soul and drag her far away from this place, a man steps into his path. He has the face. The one Castiel was supposed to forget, but could not. A name, unbidden, creeps to the front of his mind, like a flash of lightning. Dean Winchester. That is all he knows. The man is all dark shadows, his soul inky-black, save for a small glimmer of light shining out from the center. Castiel cannot imagine how such a hell-broken creature could have a soul like a lighthouse, but here he is, standing in front of Castiel’s tired eyes.

“Cas?” The man asks, and Castiel does not know how he could possibly warrant so much hope in this man’s face. It seems out of place in contrast to the blood on his hands. “Is that you?”

Castiel does not know who this ‘Cas’ is, and Dean Winchester’s face crumbles when he realizes this.

“They got you, didn’t they.” It’s not a question. It is defeat, plain and simple. Castiel watches as the hope drains from Dean’s eyes. “The angels.”

“This is what I wanted,” he responds, mechanically. “No emotions, no feelings, nothing. I can serve Heaven properly, I can do my true duty.” This is what the angels taught him to believe about his reeducation. He no longer knows whether its a lie or not. 

“Why?” Dean says. “You were supposed to help me. You left, and I turned into this.” He gestures down at himself, at the First Blade held tightly in his fist. “And you – you don’t even know who you are.”

“I know that you need to get out of my way. I have a soul to save.”

“Cas,” the man says, voice dripping with emotion (Castiel cannot discern which ones). “Don’t you know that I needed you? Sam and I couldn’t save me from myself. I spent an eternity telling myself that this would be the year you’d come back. And now Sam is hell knows where, and I’m a monster and I needed you.”

Suddenly, Castiel is no longer just in hell. He is also in a dimly-lit crypt, staring down at the face of the same man, broken and on his knees. The same words echo through his head. He is not supposed to see this, he is not supposed to remember this, but somehow he has. It breaks a wall in his mind, and memories start pouring in, a flash of a beautiful golden room, a run-down motel, a riverbank in a purple-hazy forest, a black car rumbling into an Idaho gas station.

Castiel drops to the ground, head in his hands, his heart burning (he finally remembers what it’s like to have a heart). Dean Winchester, perceptively, falls with him. He is sinking under the weight of his memories, but Dean wraps battle-worn arms around his shoulders and Castiel feels undoubtedly lighter. The young soul sits quietly in the corner, confused in light of the scene unfolding before her. She was pretty sure the King of Hell had more important things to do than break down in front of some beautiful whirlwind of an angel.

They are shaking now, wrapped up in each other, bogged down by the tribulations and grief of the past. They do not cry, for they are warriors in an unknown land, and they have each other, finally.

“What happened to you?” Castiel asks, full of shame.

“I let the Mark get the best of me,” Dean answers.

“No,” he says. Dean looks up, confused. “It didn’t get the best of you. That is still right here.” Castiel taps Dean Winchester’s chest.

“Oh, Cas,” Dean breathes. “Where did we go wrong?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel answers, truthfully. “But I do know that we can make it right if we try. How about we get out of here?”

“Oldest line in the book,” Dean teases, and oh god Castiel’s heart nearly stops at the sign of Dean’s small smile, his eyes bright green instead of oily black. Castiel stands, pulling Dean with him. It’s not a perfect solution, there will be much more to work through in the future, but Castiel holds out his hand to the woman in the corner (she clings to him in pure relief), and grips Dean tight.


End file.
